


Wind In Dry Grass

by Irrelevancy



Category: Common Law
Genre: Denial, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Malnutrition, Minor Violence, Panic Attack, Psychological Trauma, Sensory Deprivation, Triggers, White Collar crossover, none of those in a kinky way whatsoever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes is kidnapped and Travis gets him back. They both try really hard not to be gouged empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are the Hollow Men

**Author's Note:**

> For the common-meme prompt: _Travis + Wes; Travis/Wes; Wes is kidnapped, sensory-deprivation, coping mechanisms_
> 
> [Here](http://common-meme.livejournal.com/1855.html?thread=164927), pseudo-spoilers in full prompt.
> 
> NOT A PRETTY FIC AT ALL. Deals with physical and emotional trauma, alongside pretty graphic descriptions.
> 
> Title from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men."

10:04am, Detectives Mitchell and Marks left the precinct to chase down separate leads. Travis made sure to skirt his bike dangerously close to Wes's car's paint job as he exited the parking lot, leaving Wes to glare fruitlessly at the back of his helmet.

10:27am, Detective Mitchell arrived at his destination, a warehouse in Montebello, completely cleared of all evidence or clue as to where the renter, an elusive Mr. John English, might have gone. He did, however, come across a napkin wrapped around a piece of chewed gum, on which was inscribed the Magic Castle Hotel, across the city in West Hollywood.

10:48am, Detective Marks arrived at his destination, a private gallery in Pasadena, where the owner, a stately middle-aged woman, didn't seem particularly perturbed that half of her collection was missing. All she told Travis was the same thing their last robbed gallery owner had said, that the thief was handsome, charming, with amazing blue eyes. He learned nothing else on the team the thief must work with to pull off such grand heist, though the gallery owner did remind him of a robbery at an automobile repair shop about a month ago that had never been solved.

10:53am, Detective Mitchell hit another dead end at another emptied room, this time reserved under the name Mr. Dave Harley. He did, however, obtain another lead from an overheard conversation, this time a "vacation home" just south of Santa Monica.

11:16am, Detective Marks finished questioning the disgruntled owner of JJ Auto Center, and learned of the existence of a four-man team that had pulled off the car shop robbery as the owner was held at gunpoint. The owner didn't mention a man with blue eyes, but did tell Travis of an odd man out, a short, bald guy that looked on uncomfortably at the side.

11:32am, Detective Mitchell exited a grocery store in Santa Monica, after finding nothing but an abandoned house from where he searched. A bottle of vitamin water in hand, Wes approached his car, to find a man with blue eyes leaning against the driver's side, frowning in dismay at the dark, nondescript van that was parked to his right. Wes took off. The man didn't pursue, but four men burst out of the back of the van and had Wes incapacitated within minutes. The man with blue eyes glanced around warily at the empty parking lot before getting into the passenger's seat. Nobody saw the kidnapping, or Wes's cell phone, badge, and gun being tossed out onto the freeway, or the dark van, for that matter.

The bald man was driving.

* * *

 

The taser barely caught the back of Wes's hand, but it was enough to score a deep puncture wound into his knuckle and send a shock straight through every nerve ending in his body. The men worked fast, he had to give them that– how quickly they disabled him, wrapped a black cloth around his face, then tossed him into the car. He landed hard on his elbow, against carpeted floor panels that shook with every car door slamming shut (Wes counted three, though it may have well been four or five or sixteen, considering how little else he could focus on besides the _pain_ ). Hands were immediately on him, yanking at his suit jacket and shoes and belt and _pants_ , the carpet abrading roughly along his now-bare chest and knees. Even the pain wasn't strong enough to completely keep out the panic that was swiftly settling in, as they yanked his arms behind his back, binding his wrists tightly together with something rubbery (duct tape, Wes identified drowsily, minutes later), his ankles receiving the same treatment. Dimly, Wes heard voices, and he fought hard to focus in on the conversation.

"…agreed to this. Theft is one thing, abduction and assault is something else entirely–"

"Shut it, Haversham, and keep your eyes on the road–"

"All we're saying is that we're white collar thieves, and kidnapping a cop gives our rap sheets another kind of mark that we don't want to have–"

"When I want your opinion, Caffrey, I'll pay you for it. Right now, I'd sooner toss you out than _him_."

Here, Wes was given a hard shake, throwing his concentration off again as what felt like every muscle in his body spasmed in protest. He fought to keep his breathing even, his heart rate steady, but when every voice above him pounded against his temples, and every breeze that brushed against his back felt like an _extremely_ unnerving touch, Wes was beginning to feel lightheaded, his breaths damp against the cloth covering his nose and mouth. Words were buzzing above his head again, hands against his skin again, and Wes found the strength to kick out this time, bare heels connecting solidly against something unmistakably _human_ , a feral shout following after. His victory was short lived, however, as Wes immediately found himself being barraged by kicks and punches he had no way of protecting himself against, and when the onslaught finally ended, Wes was not far from unconscious, barely able to keep his eyes open (not that he could tell from behind the cloth).

As the van rumbled on, the situation finally registered for Wes, the dread and unmistakable fear enough to send him into another round of breathless panic. But Wes held on, clinging desperately to the last happy thought he could dredge up before unconscious could claim him whole:

Travis was _wrong_.


	2. Headpiece Filled With Straw

It was four thirty in the afternoon and Travis was pissed. Wes was still not back at the precinct, and Travis just _knew_ that Wes had caught a lead. Dammit, he had been so sure that the gallery owner was hiding something– but the way she had been so easily swept up by Travis's charm made it obvious that she was really just a kind, perhaps a bit too carefree old lady. The warehouse had been the key. Travis hadn't liked the idea of combing through bits and pieces of evidence to _maybe_ find something– but that kind of anal retentive work was right up Wes's alley, and the only reason Wes was not back yet had to be that he caught onto a lead.

…Which was strange, since Wes would've at least called to gloat, if not to report in, because _rules_. Even if he had been in a hurry, Wes would've at least texted. That was one of the unspoken rules, even in their twisted little relationship, because they were partners, and partners had to have each other's backs. It was strange that Wes just left Travis hanging like that.

An uneasy feeling suddenly settled into Travis's stomach, and he picked up his phone from the desk, checking for missed calls, messages. There was nothing. Travis had been holding off on calling Wes, because A, he didn't want to admit he was wrong, and B, he's seen far too many crime procedural shows to know that calling someone in the middle of a situation was a bad idea, but it didn't seem like he had much of a choice. The phone rang four, five, six times, and went to voicemail (Wes didn't even have a fully-recorded message– just his name and a generic _Please leave your message after the tone_ ). Travis hung up immediately after, because he wasn't desperate enough to leave a _voicemail_. Instead, he dialed again, sitting up in his chair as it rang.

"Hello?"

"Kendall," Travis greeted. "Think you can do something for me?"

"Depends on what it is, how long it'll take, you know the drill," Kendall answered breezily. "Consultation's free, though. What's up?"

"Wes's phone is standard, equipped with GPS. Can you track that for me?" Travis could practically hear her skeptical expression, and he quickly added, "Not for anything creepy. He hasn't checked in for a while, just wanted to know where he was."

"Aw, are you worried?" Travis snorted as the sound of keyboard clacking came over the phone.

"Worried that he'll get his butt kicked without me, totally. We're a team; I can't let him drag my reputation through the mud."

"If you say so," Kendall hummed. "Alright, it's triangulating now, and… It's in the middle of a freeway."

"Where's he heading?" Travis asked.

"Um, nowhere, as far as I can tell." Travis was already on his feet, grabbing his badge and gun and tucking them into his pockets. "It's just there, in the middle of the freeway, not moving."

"Alright, text me the location, I'm on my way," Travis said quickly, hanging up. Before he started up his motorcycle, though, Travis called Wes again.

_…Wesley Mitchell. Please leave your message after the tone._

"Wes, if you get this message, stay where you are," Travis announced, revving the engine. "If I find you passed out on the side of the road, you'll never live it down, alright?"

* * *

 "–pop a bullet in his head, not a big deal."

"I told you, Tyson, that's not the way I like to do my business–"

"Too fucking bad, Caffrey. Seems like you're forgetting who's the boss here."

"You kill that detective, and I walk away. Without me, this job is finished–"

"I can add your body to the pile too, if you'd like. I'm not picky."

"Nor am I, but if I die, you'll have to answer to the FBI. Word on the street is, Agent Peter Burke is in town, so all the smart kids are laying low. Now you, Tyson, you rear your big head and catch Burke's attention, you're in big trouble."

"Burke? The guy who's been trying to catch you for three years? If you can hide from him, so can I–"

"I can _barely_ hide from him– he's here, isn't he? And you really think Burke's not gonna find something, anything in this town? You may run games, Tyson, but you're nowhere near the big leagues, and if Burke so much as _nudges_ the wrong person, Feds will be the least of your worries."

"…So what do you propose we do, let the detective go? He found Santa Monica, our stash is next, and you don't seem to be fencing the works fast enough–"

"You want the big buyers, and I told you, those guys are trouble–"

"–I'm not letting him go, Caffrey, even if you jump ship."

"…Fine. Then just lock him up. I'll get the art fenced as quick as I can, no more upscale buyers–"

"Caffrey–"

"Not if you want the Feds on our tails, and I'll tell you right now it's not the _innovative enterprises_ here that made me move across the country. We're doing this my way."

"…Whatever."

"Alright. Give me a week."

"A _week_? Even the best fence can't do sixteen paintings in a week–"

" _Give me a week._ Then, the detective goes back unharmed, and we skip town."

"…A week. A minute more, I shoot him, got it? You're getting soft, Caffrey, if you can't even pull a damn trigger."

"I was never really much of a gun guy."


	3. Our Dried Voices, When We Whisper Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor White Collar crossover, but nothing overly relevant. Just a way to forward the plot, and just treat them like OCs if you aren't familiar with Neal and Moz. :)

Wes woke up to the sensation of someone roughly shaking him, and the movement, in addition to the physical trauma he had just suffered through ( _just?_ He couldn't say for sure. How long, exactly, has he been out?), sent a quickly building wave of nausea right up the back of his throat.

"–gonna hurl, careful, Neal–"

Helpful hands on his shoulders turned Wes right then down, his hands straining against his bounds (the same rubbery material– duct tape, to something hard– a chair?) as his body violently ejected everything in his stomach to slosh against the ground (splashes, hard– concrete, probably). There were groans of disgust above him, and Wes grudgingly agreed, trying to spit out the taste of bile from his mouth.

"Here," someone said, righting him, as a bottle of water was pressed to his lips. Wes eagerly sucked in a mouthful, gurgled, and spat out to the right again (splashes again– definitely concrete). The second mouthful helped sooth the burn of his throat going down, and Wes looked up wearily at the blue-eyed man, whose inexplicably attractive face had strangely stuck with him through his entire… ordeal.

"What do you want from me?" Wes asked, voice still gravelly. The man helpfully poured Wes another mouthful, cringing apologetically when half of Wes's greedy swallow went down the wrong way, leaving Wes coughing and sputtering.

"It's nothing personal, really," the man said, looking uncomfortable as he patted down his pockets, searching for something. "You just got too close to the investigation."

"Oh yes, sorry to _inconvenience_ you like that. I'll just refrain from doing my job the next time, yeah?" Wes growled, leaning away distrustfully as the man found what he was looking for– a napkin– and began wiping at the trail of water on Wes's face and neck. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Yeah Neal," piped up another voice (much more obviously disgruntled) from Wes's left, and Wes turned fast enough to give himself whiplash, cursing his still-hazy senses for failing to notice the short, bald man standing beside blue-eyed "Neal," who, in turn, just sighed feelingly and continued blotting at Wes. "I thought you said we were just here to talk to him, not– I don't even know what you're doing. What are you doing."

Neal didn't look up, but Wes could see a red flush at the tip of his ears.

"Just common hospitality." He sounded so insistent, Wes couldn't resist.

"Because kidnappers have hospitality in spades, don't they?"\

Neal's hand (trimmed nails, tapered fingers– artist, white collar, conman, but old callouses– not unfamiliar with physical work) stilled, and he slowly straightened, tucking the damp napkin away (smooth– definitely an artist, steady grip, maybe a doctor, an engineer). He exchanged looks with the bald man, then sank into a crouch, looking up earnestly at Wes (schooled in body language, player, definitely a conman– what, he though Wes, a detective who's had to deal with far too many distrustful witnesses to count didn't know how to play body language?).

"We just want to help you–"

"Bullshit," Wes called, and smiled humorlessly at Neal's surprised expression. "I caught onto a lead, you caught me. Yesterday's robbery added five more paintings to the eleven from before, and you either need to get out of town or sell them locally, but there's no way that's happened since yesterday, considering the pissed-off Feds I have roaming about my precinct. So the only reason I'm not dead yet, Neal Caffrey, is that you want something from me." He smiled again, this time with a lot more teeth and intent. "It _is_ Caffrey, isn't it?"

Neal and the bald guy exchanged (pointed, sharp) looks again. It made Wes feel an explicable case of loneliness, because he and Travis could do that. They could communicate across the room without making a single sound (though they rarely did– with them, voices and shouting were highly conducive to getting the point across, after all), and if Travis was here–

If Travis was here, they'd all be screwed, wouldn't they?

"Alright detective, our intentions aren't pure," Neal finally concurred, standing up with a sigh. "But we're not like Tyson and the others up there. Moz and I just want to get out of this alive."

"Neal–" the bald man, _Moz_ , immediately protested, but Neal shushed him with a wave (exasperated, but apologetic– not a power play, then).

"We'll get you out of here, and give you names– _real_ names," he proposed, "and in turn, this case closes with Tyson behind bars. Kidnapping and assault makes it nowhere near my rep sheet."

So Neal wanted a deal. It marveled Wes how the most cliched plot for criminals continued to be the most constant– tried and true, he supposed. The police had a history of having interest in the biggest fish in the pond. In Wes's opinion, big or small, they were worth catching, because what's to say today's small fry won't grow to be the head of an international trafficking ring one day? But if taking the deal was going to get Wes out alive, he wasn't about to say no. Plus, the Feds from New York were already on Caffrey's tail, so as much as it went against Wes's instincts, he couldn't second-guess this chance to put down the head of the up-and-coming LA robbery squad– the man Neal called Tyson.

"Deal," he said, and Moz snorted.

"See? He's already trying to screw us over. He thinks we don't know your agent's in town."

"Excuse me for trying to save my life!"

"Stop. Both of you." Neal fixed Moz with a deliberate stare until the shorter man turned away with a huff. Then his attention was back on Wes, still the same understanding, sheepish look he started out with– the liar. "Detective, the Feds don't change anything. The offer is still on the table."

"You even show a sign of movement, they'll be all over you," Wes said incredulously. "As much as I hate to admit it, the Feds are resourceful. They're good."

"It doesn't matter," Neal said with a grim smile. "We've got everything ready. It'll take a week, then you'll be out of here, Tyson will be behind bars, and we'll be out of your hair. Are we good?"

Wes took a moment to mull the deal over, but only a moment, because really, what else could he do? By pure dumb luck, Wes was still alive, and he'd really like to keep it that way.

"Yeah," he finally said. "We're good. But one last thing…"

"Oh no, here we go." Wes stared hard at Moz.

" _Moz_? What does that– What _is_ that, even?"

"It's short for Haversham," Moz sniffed primly. "That's all you need to know."

* * *

 

Wes's phone was intact when Travis picked it out from an errant bush along the side of the freeway, the notifications light flashing from Travis's texts, missed calls, and voice message. His badge and gun were there as well, a couple of meters apart, and Travis was just glad nobody thought to pick up the stray gun, because they didn't need a missing police-issue Glock on top of everything else (he knew detectives that had their careers ruined by a missing gun– not by other people, but by their own guilt, something you can only drown in when a body washes up on the beach with a bullet from your gun lodged in its brain).

Small comforts aside, it was clear what happened here, and it put Travis on edge. No matter how absurdly skinny and breakable Wes looked, Travis knew from experience that the man didn't go down easy, and there wasn't even a sign of a fight. To be fair, though, the items were clearly tossed out from a car, so Wes must've been grabbed somewhere else, dumped in a car, then driven to god knows where. Alright, that was a start. Look for signs of disturbance nearby– reports of loud arguments, muggings, gang violence, and even– god forbid– gunshots. He gets the info, find the car, put out an APB, find where they're keeping Wes, and arrest the whole gang while they're at it. Sounded good.

Travis was shoving Wes's stuff into the back of his bike when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was the chief.

"Did you find him?" No preamble whatsoever, Sutton was worried. Travis fought the urge to go _Aawww_.

"No sir, just his gun, badge, and cellphone," he reported, and Sutton cursed.

"Alright, ask around, see if anyone saw anything–"

"Chief, I'm already on it," Travis said soothingly, tossing a leg over the seat of his bike. "You just hang on in your office, light an incense, meditate a little, whatever you need to do, and Wes and I will be back in time for dinner."

There was silence over the line, and Travis paused in revving his engine, worried.

"Chief?"

"Travis, are you alright?" Sutton asked, voice a little high to be at normal concerned level, and Travis frowned into his phone.

"'Course I am," he replied. "I'm not the one kidnapped here. Why?"

"Because you…" Sutton made a sound of frustration, and Travis suddenly found himself thumbing the end call button on his phone. He knew where this was going, and Travis had better things to do than talk about his feelings right now. "You don't sound particularly concerned, is all."

"Look, chief." Travis fought to keep himself from sounding exasperated, because it was obvious, wasn't it? "Instead of Wes's body, the robbers only left behind his stuff, which means they need Wes for something, and Wes isn't stupid enough to give them what they want before I find him. So I just gotta find him."

"Ah, well, yes." Sutton sounded stunned now, and Travis's fingers were impatiently tapping against his helmet. "I guess that's true."

"Then can I go find Wes now, chief?" Travis asked deliberately.

"Yeah, sure." Sutton took in an audible breath on the other end of the line. "Listen, Travis, could you be in denial–"

Travis pressed the End Call button, jammed the helmet over his head, and threw his phone into the back before Sutton could call back, because Dr. Ryan didn't just talk about denial, she talked about projection too. Travis was being sensible; he had parts of the puzzle, he merely put them together. It was obvious Wes wasn't– that Wes was okay, and what was the use worrying about the more improbable than the imminently probable? Travis was being _sensible_.

Step one, then. Step one, find complaints, because there _had_ to be complaints, Wes _had_ to have left a mark, because no matter how much Travis insisted, Wes really wasn't stupid. Step one, find the mess Wes left, and clean up after his partner.


	4. Rats’ Feet Over Broken Glass

A week. Wes only had to hang on for a week. Then they'd let him go.

Yeah, and Wes was an agent from a secret government agency that specializes in superheroes.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Neal Caffrey (even though, obviously, he didn't), just that it was ridiculous the man expected Wes to sit around, doing nothing, and trust that Neal will come through on his promise. If anything, Wes was going to get himself out first, and sic the Feds on all of them, even Neal and Mozzie, because bad guys were bad guys, and Wes wasn't the sentimental type anyways.

And so Wes got ready. Breaking the chair he was in was simple, if disproportionately painful, and it provided a nice club and a couple of sharp(-ish) projectile weapons. Next, waiting by the door, an ugly industrial slab of steel surrounded by dull gray concrete– the most aggravating combination of colors that grated on Wes's patience and sent his adrenaline spiking, and that wasn't good. If one of the robbers come in just as Wes was coming down from a high, he was dead meat. There wasn't any way to tell time in the basement-prison cell either, so Wes pressed his bare back against the freezing wall and forced himself to breathe. In two three, out two, in two three, out two. He shifted his grip on the chair leg until the edges weren't biting into his palm quite as much, and forced his shoulders down. In two three, out two.

It also helped if he let his mind wander, letting his thoughts go where they may and free it from the rigid regime he's worked himself into since far too long ago. Having control was easy, was good, but Wes wasn't stubborn enough to force himself into a hyperactive state of mind he has no way of maintaining, given there was no water or food in the room and he somehow doubted that his kidnappers, eager to kill as they had been, would make keeping him healthy a priority. So he had to hit them hard and fast, but that won't happen if he's hyperventilating on the ground. Keep it cool, Wesley Mitchell. Don't overthink it. In two three, out two.

Don't overthink it, just let his thoughts go, and first thing he comes across in the wide expanse of his brain was– what the hell– Travis. Travis, whom he had beaten in their contest to find the best lead. Travis, who must've noticed that Wes was gone by now. Travis, who must be _looking_ for Wes by now. So Wes really just had to make the job easier for everybody and take out the robbers from the inside. Travis can handle everything else. In two three, out two three, and Wes could feel his muscles slacken, as his breaths got easier. In two three, out two three.

So Travis was the way to go, huh? It was odd to think that the constant annoyance at his side Wes called a partner was a source of comfort at a time like this. Wes must be honest to god exhausted, to think that he maybe sort of missed the way Travis was predictably unpredictable, that Wes could always trust him to have an unorthodox solution that didn't require sitting in a crouch against a freezing cold floor with just a piece of wood in his hands. Wes's ego instinctively flared, but he forced it back down, scolding it into submission because there was no time for pride right now, just honed senses out for anyone approaching the door, and even breathing. In two three four, out two three.

There was a pesky sense of nostalgia as well. The line between "professionalism" and "Travis Marks" that Wes has learned to straddle so well, it didn't work without Travis to lean on. The way they acted around each other, the complete opposite of who they try so hard to be– Travis "Everybody Loves Me" Marks being a total dick, and Mr. Proper Wes making childish bets– was damaging as well as liberating. They hurt each other on purpose, prodding each other's bruises and wounds, making each word that comes out of their mouth deliberately cruel because it was constant, it was a cycle, and Travis, without any meaningful relationships in his life, depended on that cycle as much as Wes, who needed it because Travis was–

Footsteps made their way down the stairs.

In two three four, out two three four–

The clanging of keys right outside the door–

In two three four, out two three four–

The doorknob turning–

In two three four–

Game on.

* * *

"What do you mean, there aren't any reports?" Travis said through gritted teeth, fighting hard not to grab the uniform and slam him against the nearest wall. He must be new, unfamiliar with Detective Marks' repertoire and penchant for violence, because he _shrugged_ , without a goddamn care in the world. Travis sneered pointedly at his name tag. Officer Asimov was about to learn the way of the LAPD.

"There just aren't any–"

"Did you show them your gun?" Asimov looked affronted, as if he had any sense of self-respect left, talking to Travis like that.

" _What_? Of course I didn't–"

"You should've." With a shark-like grin that was far from his eyes, Travis pulled out his own gun, clicking off the safety and casually slinging it around his pointer finger. Asimov cringed and backed away, but Travis was hot on his heels. "Here's police 101, officer. Guns imply that you're not afraid to be forceful, and people tend to answer when you're forceful. Like now, for instance." Another casual sling had Asimov staring right into the barrel of the gun, deer-in-headlights frozen. "Officer, did you or did you not check _every single house_ within a ten-block radius?"

"N-No, I–"

"Then you better get a move on."

Asimov scampered away, but not before a rebellious glare over his shoulder and a muttered "Dick" reached Travis's ears. Travis smiled sweetly before taking aim, the asphalt by Asimov's feet splintering into shards that was loud enough to _almost_ drown out Asimov's pathetic squeak. God that was sad. Travis just hated to deal with fresh-faced uniforms–

"Are you crazy?" Kate hissed, yanking Travis's gun from his hand. Practiced movements slipped the safety right back on. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, annoyed. The sun was far too bright, glinting off Kate's hair and into his eyes.

"I'm talking about how you're as bad as Wes right now," she growled, slapping the gun back into Travis's hand. The metal was warm in his clammy palms. "Except he tends to reduce people to tears by _talking_ alone."

"He pulled a gun on _me_ ," Travis said, not sure whether he meant that as an argument or a boast. Kate made a face at him.

"Captain warned me about this," she said with an expression of revulsion. "You're flipping out 'cause Wes is missing. The five stages of grief and all–"

" _I'm not grieving._ " Kate's face blanked. "There's nothing to grieve _about_."

"Detective Marks, you need to calm down before Sutton pulls you from this case." Her tone was even, no-nonsense, and Travis was so angry, he wanted to puke.

"He can't pull me from the case, Wes is _missing_ –"

"And you're being of no help whatsoever right now," Kate interrupted brutally. Travis stepped back, as though slapped, but Kate was merciless. "Travis, get your shit together. If there's anyone here that can find Wes, it's you. Not the Feds, not me and Amy, this is all on you. Do you understand me?"

"I–" Realizing that his nails were biting into his palm, Travis forcefully relaxed his fist and took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I got it. Thanks."

Kate, good old Kate, just rolled her eyes and tapped her knuckles against Travis's cheek.

"I don't want you ever yelling at me again, _capiche_?" Her customary little smirk was back, and Travis felt himself mirroring her expression.

"Got it."

"Good. Now go get your man."

* * *

 

"What's going on?"

Wes forced his eyes open around the pain hammering in his head and glared at Neal above him, because speaking was largely unnecessary at this point in the game, as Wes was crystal clear as to what was going to happen to him now, and anything Caffrey could say would just be rubbing salt on the wound. Caffrey, for his part, just looked deliberately obtuse, meeting Tyson's glare with a level gaze of his own.

"Oh, not much." Wes usually loved sassy criminals, because sass meant arrogance, and arrogance meant an opportunity for Wes and Travis to gain some kind of leverage over them. But this Tyson was really a piece of work– even Wes, snark king extraordinaire, had to give him that much, though spending the last half hour being beaten and sassed at by said piece of work might've had something to do with it. "Just that your pet detective here tried to make a break for it. Now, Carlton's got a concussion, Pollack's out cold with a broken wrist, and there's _a bite wound on my ankle._ " Wes hid his laugh in a cough wet with blood from his bitten tongue (Pollack's uppercut had caught him by surprise, but Wes gave as good as he got), but Tyson aimed a kick at his hand anyways. Wes had half a mind to dig his fingers into the incisor marks under the cuff of his jeans, but he had a feeling that wouldn't help the case right now. "What do you have to say to that, Caffrey?"

"That you should really learn how to properly constrain somebody," Caffrey answered coolly, and for a moment– just a quick moment– Wes was filled with immense appreciation for the man. But the moment went as fast as it came, because if it wasn't for Caffrey, Wes wouldn't be in this mess in the first place, would he? Fucking criminals.

"I'm done _constraining_ people," Tyson snarled, kicking Wes none-too-gently over and aiming a gun at his head. Wes spat a mouthful of spit and bile at his leg, hoping it would seep into his wound and _at least_ infect it. If Wes was going out, he was very well going to go out in goddamn style. "I'm done with _you_ –"

"Then I hope you have a nice life in prison," Caffrey interrupted, still cool as you please, casually smoothing a crease in his slacks. "I'll be out of your hair in less than an hour if you pull that trigger."

"Caffrey." Tyson's growl was supposed to be a warning, Wes thought, and he might've held his breath for a second, waiting for Neal to reply.

"Tyson," was his simple answer, and it was enough for Tyson to drop his gun.

"Alright. Six more days, I personally secure him, you don't go anywhere near him." It wasn't an offer. "Plastic water bottles. Nothing else."

"Without anything to eat for six days–"

" _Nothing else._ "

Wes wanted to give Caffrey kudos for trying, he really did, but there was nothing but an angry sort of desperation left in him– for being caught, for not actually killing one of the sons of bitches that gave him hell– when he saw Neal's resigned expression, the apologetic look the conman schooled his face into, as the shoes of Tyson's crew– shoes Wes and his ribs had become intimately familiar with– closed in around Wes.

He didn't even have time for one last thought before they knocked him out again.


	5. Shape Without Form, Shade Without Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the emotions. All ye who enter.

That was two days ago.

Two long days painstakingly counted by number of clues as to Wes's whereabouts, and Travis was still at zero. Wes had once mentioned the probability of getting a case that had absolutely zero leads, and Travis had just written the complaint off as Wes being sore over the sudoku puzzle he couldn't figure out. Even right now, Travis didn't want to believe it, because there were always clues, and if Travis just stayed _optimistic_ enough, he'd find them.

Everybody else was leaving him alone, and for once in his life, Travis appreciated it. He appreciated the silence when he was bursting with anger and sarcasm, because _Wes_ was supposed to fill that silence. He appreciated the space when he was walking down the hallway, because _Wes_ was supposed to be by his side. Wes and only Wes, and Travis didn't care that he sounded so proprietary, not anymore, because that's how he was going to get Wes back. It made sense, in a crazy logic sort of way. If he accepted that he needed Wes beside him, Wes would come back beside him, because the alternative was just too insane to be real. So insane, in fact, that there really _was_ no alternative. Just the fact that if Travis wanted Wes back in his life, Wes was going to get back in his life.

"The car was found dumped in a mall parking lot. Wiped clean."

It wasn't the report that did it, because truth to be told, Travis didn't expect much to be gleaned from the car. It was the folder Kendall handed back to him, the way the paperclip at the top corner was tilted at an angle, because that was the way Travis put the folder together without Wes watching and grumbling over him, righting Travis's messes, fixing up Travis's mix-ups. It was the ultimate _proof_ that Wes _wasn't there_ , that pulled the trigger on the gun Travis had been so dead-set on ignoring, the gun that was the possibility of Travis breaking down, losing it, because Wes wasn't there to hold his crooked pieces together.

Travis let his eyes flutter shut, and for an instant, a fraction of an instant, he let his head fall forward, let his back bow under the pressure. An instant of the worst case scenario being a fifty percent chance possibility, an instant of an alternative existing. An instant far too big to keep bottled because it was crushing Travis from the inside out. He wasn't used to this pressure, this constant knowledge that every single one of his actions bore such weight, and that if he wasn't careful, he could drop an anvil on everything that meant something to him. Travis wasn't used to wanting so much from himself, _needing_ so much from himself, that he could barely breathe. Was this what Wes felt like everyday? Was Wes like this because of _Travis_? What would they be like if Travis just… stopped, for a day, treated Wes like someone _worth it_ , let Wes breathe? What could they be like? An instant of panic, of loss, of hope– a ride straight down to the bottom, then right back up, and Travis wanted to throw up.

So he forced it all back down, a presence thick and writhing in his throat and stomach, Travis forced it down and ignored the pounding at his chest, at his head.

An instant, and he was Travis again, still at zero but still _optimistic_ , with a smile for the pretty girl, all the while cursing himself for that lost second.

* * *

 

That was three days ago.

They had cuffed his right ankle to a broken radiator on the wall. Three plastic water bottles sat next to him on the freezing concrete floor.

That was three days ago, and Wes hasn't heard so much as a murmur of conversation since. One bottle was already empty, a second reluctantly opened, and Wes resolutely tamped down the memory of his plan to get a sandwich right before he was grabbed. Hunger had long since become just an uncomfortable itch in the background of Wes's focus (or at least, that was what he adamantly told himself), and Wes had just let his internal clock tick away in the dark of the basement as he settled in.

And then he realized, he's been here for three days.

The handcuffs ( _Wes's_ handcuffs) rattled and bit into his ankle, the unexpected noise making Wes cringe, his ears attuned to concrete-enforced silence. His hands sought out the nearest thing he could grab onto– the radiator– as Wes forced the sudden onset of nausea away. Slowly, but steadily, his muscles relaxed, letting the cold all around him seep in under his skin, because Wes was simply too tired to even _shiver_ properly. His fingers peeled away from the radiator smelling of iron, and suddenly, it all got too much. The disgusting, chemical-like deposit coating his tongue, the taste of the rust flaking off his skin and permeating the room– Wes quickly crawled as far away from his resting spot as he could, his leg stretched out behind him, muscles twinging from when he had pulled it earlier trying to escape, and threw up the bile burning in his stomach. Strength faltering, Wes could barely hold himself up anymore, crumbling onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut, tears burning against his cheeks and nose.

Three days, and Wes was already a sobbing mess on the floor, ready to beg for mercy from whoever deemed to come in through the door. Caffrey had promised a week, and three days ago, that promise was comforting. Now, it was a curse, as every other thought that crossed Wes's mind was _Why couldn't he do it sooner_ , and his bad days, _Why did he do it at all_. Wes didn't want saving, he didn't _need_ saving, so why the hell did Neal fucking Caffrey bother? Why make his life this living hell?

Three days had already reduced Wes to _this_. He wondered what three more days would do to him. Wes thought about the process that brought him so far down, and wondered how much lower he could go.

Day One carried the dogged hope that Travis would find him, that even without Wes, Travis would be able to solve the case, arrest the bad guys, and find Wes. Day One was the beginning of the story, the Once upon a time that had been repeated so many times that they weren't even proper words anymore, just a dim circle of hope Wes held on to, but couldn't take a good look at, in fear that it will go out as soon as Wes closed his hands around it to bring it close. Wes wanted to believe in Travis, he really did. But when all you knew were cold, hard surfaces, the smell of bile, and an approximation of time by measuring how thirsty you could get, things like hope and belief took a backseat.

Day Two was the shameful hours that bore witness to far too many screams and heedless thrashing, _useless_ thrashing, that rendered the skin around Wes's ankles to torn strips and dried blood that flaked like rust off the radiator. Day Two was when he cried so loud and hard that he had to empty the first bottle to feel his throat again. Wes never wanted to remember Day Two again, the part where everything went wrong because Wes expected it to, the part where you realized that the disappointing story was only going to get more disappointing, but you'll hold it out, because you couldn't get _more_ disappointed. You just couldn't.

Day Three, and Wes wanted to put a bullet through his brain. Because he continued the story, because he had to hold it out. Day Three was when all that was keeping you going was your fucking pride, because you started this story, you were going to goddamn finish it. All that's left was your pride. All that's left was Wes's pride, because he couldn't muster up the energy for anything else, and pride was just a reaction anyways– what was he going to do with a reaction when there was nothing to react to? So really, all that's left was nothing. Nothing but the Once upon a time, before reality set in, and a disappointing plot line. Wes was so disappointed. He was disappointed in himself, for letting the shitty situation get to him; he was disappointed in the world, for having such shitty situations; he was disappointed at Travis, for being out of reach, all the way at the start of the story when Wes was falling over the end of it, desperately pinwheeling for balance without anything to hold onto except a rusty radiator. God, he wanted to hold onto Travis so much, so _goddamn_ much.

But Travis wasn't around, was he? And Wes didn't blame him, not really. Travis would be doing enough of that for both of them, because Mr. Perfect couldn't be Mr. Perfect if he couldn't even save his own partner. All Wes had to do was let that guilt kick Travis into overdrive, and hang on for the ride. All Wes _could_ do was wait.

Patience was a virtue, and no one has ever called Wes a virtuous man.


	6. Remember Us—If At All—Not As Lost

Day Five, Travis's counter finally hit one. It should matter that the Feds had been the ones to finally track down the robbery ring, and it should matter that the only reason they could track it down in the first place was because the fence of the robbery ring decided to turn them in. But it didn't. Not yet, anyways. Not when Wes was still gone, when Travis still had to ride his bike not out of desire, but necessity. Travis missed Wes's car, the way it played music how Travis liked it, the way it was clean enough to be professional– but not without signs of use– the way Wes liked it, the way that it was _Wes's_ car. With Travis's Clues to Finding Wes Counter at a persistent zero, Travis had started a new list, a list that had been growing exponentially, a list he might have expected, but was nonetheless surprised to find himself possessing: the Things I Want But Haven't Told Wes list.

#47– The Feds _couldn't_ have found the clue without Travis's help. No way.

#48– Travis missed being driven around by Wes. It was nice to have a chauffeur.

The house they arrived at was nondescript, tucked away in the suburbs, and Travis hated it upon first sight. It had none of the purposeful character Travis's trailer had, not even the subtle disposition of Wes's hotel room on the rare occasion Travis has had to see it. #49– Wes's hotel room was a far better representation of his persistently-polished, awkwardly-angled personality than, say, the decked-out bachelor's pad Travis always told him he should get, with the kind of money he has. Travis was taking point, but before he positioned himself to kick in the front door, he grabbed the note and key taped to the brass knocker.

_Basement,_ the note said, and Travis was suddenly grateful for the protocol Wes had tediously schooled into him for gun safety. It wasn't that Travis didn't know how to properly use a gun, it was just that he would _sometimes occasionally maybe_ forget to click on the safety and fire a wild shot into the pavement, and with Travis's tendency to pull his gun, a clenched fist in a moment of passion could mean a very painful ricochet for an innocent civilian, or worse, his constant companion Wes. Or that was Wes's explanation anyways. Travis just thought how stupid it was that the first time that he has taken care to follow Wes's instructions, Wes wasn't there to see.

#50– Gloat to Wes for not shooting anyone in the foot.

The plan was simple– straight in-and-out smash and grab. Travis and the Feds may differ in opinion as to _who_ they were grabbing, but Travis really didn't care about the hierarchy, the fucking social order, and has made it painfully clear to anyone and everyone who cared to ask or– god forbid– contradict Travis's ultimate goal that he was here for Wes and Wes only. Did he care for the robbery ring, not particularly. Only if they had killed Wes. Then, Travis would very much care to put bullets through their kneecaps, then guts, then lungs, then heart. But Wes couldn't have been killed, so Travis didn't need to worry about that. Just smash, grab, and just like that, everything would be back to normal.

"All units are a go. I repeat, all units are _go._ "

Suddenly, adrenaline.

The door went down (Travis's boot connecting solidly above the doorknob the crack of wood sounded like a gunshot men inside), and it was all too easy (all caught completely off-guard). The robbers didn't even have time to arm themselves. After (stiffly and quickly because Wes would disapprove otherwise) following protocol and clearing the room (a bit too soon not too careful because Travis had bigger things to worry about than getting shot in his kevlar), Travis grabbed the nearest robber (shaking in his underwear balding in his thirties must be the stress and ski masks) and slammed him against the wall (blue– Wes's favorite shade of it).

" _Where is my partner?_ "

A shaky finger point (Travis wanted to reach out and break but time seconds were ticking) and Travis was running (and ticking ticking) for the door at the end of the hall (kept on ticking). Locked (Travis didn't even bother trying the knob why there was no point), the key went in and turned jerkily (no one's been down here god they locked him up and _stored_ him down here like fucking nonperishables). Travis allowed his eyes to adjust for a few moments (stairs leading down a cement floor with cement walls no windows radiator against the wall all along the right the smell of sweat and urine and puke Wes would hate this place Wes was in this place Wes where _Wes_ )–

And promptly shut the door behind him.

He probably shouted some kind of excuse through the door, something flimsy, but would hold for a couple of minutes at least. Long enough for Travis to rush down the stairs and sprint the short distance across the room to where Wes lied, staring up at him with wide, watering eyes as Travis fell to his knees and scooped Wes up into his arms.

Travis's first words were, "You look like shit."

Wes's first words were, "That light was fucking bright, asshole."

They took one minute to just stare at each other– Travis's sleeves crumpled in Wes's death grip and Wes's head braced against Travis's palm– and then doubled over laughing, wheezing in relief, and Travis didn't care how uncomfortable kevlar felt against skin as he pulled Wes into a tight embrace.

"You had me worried, man," Travis murmured smiling into Wes's hair, and Wes guffawed something hysterical and grateful.

"I had _you_ worried?" he choked, face and heaving chest pressed tight against Travis. "I worried about _you_! A week! It took you a week to get here!"

The reminder just made Travis hold on to his partner tighter, fingertips gripping at frozen skin and the tense muscles underneath.

"You're cold," he said needlessly, just wanting to hear Wes's voice.

"I'm _naked_ ," and how _fucking much_ Travis missed that hint of condescension, the incredulity in that superior voice. "I'm also _starving_."

"I need an ambulance ready!" Travis hollered in the general direction of the stairs and the door he had slammed shut for the sake of Wes's dignity. The euphoria at finally getting Wes back dimmed, as Wes failed to argue against needing the hospital, and Travis grimly pulled out his gun.

"The safety's on," Wes said, sounding insultingly taken aback, and Travis grinned hard enough to show teeth.

"Are you proud of me enough to let me shoot that?" he asked, gesturing at the handcuff clanging around Wes's ankle.

"Do you even have to ask?" Travis wanted to say yes, yes he did, because if he asked, Wes would answer, now that Wes was _here_ again. Wes would answer. #51. "Just get me out of here."

_Bang, clank,_ and a couple of more suitable onomatopoeias later, Travis helped Wes to his feet, shielding Wes with his body as the door opened tentatively above them, no one really sure what the protocol was when a detective, upon finding his long-lost partner behind closed door, shuts the door right behind him. They moved forward as one, Wes's grip never leaving Travis's arm as Travis gestured for a blanket to be thrown down. In the morning light, Wes looked… surreal. Breath-taking. In the most awful way Travis could bear. His skin was sallow and looked to have the consistency of tissue paper, his eyes bruised and squeezed tightly shut to shield against the brightness. Wrapped in ridiculous orange felt, Wes was downright tiny, teetering vacantly under the weight. Travis grimaced, holding him tighter, and for the first time since their acquaintance, Wes didn't object to the unnecessary contact.

"Alright, let's get you to a hospital then," Travis said, feeling unpleasantly useless as paramedics swarmed Wes at the top of the stairs, reaching to wrap gauze around Wes's eyes, grabbing his wrists to take his pulse. Wes held on, however, to Travis's shirt. The wrinkles were going to be heinous, but Travis was attuned enough to his feelings to proudly say that he didn't mind (#52), not at all. In fact, he should probably preserve this shirt, have it framed, wrinkles and all, to commemorate the day Travis Marks saved Wesley Mitchell from certain doom.

The self-satisfaction didn't stop there, as the paramedics didn't even question Travis as he hopped into the back of the ambulance with Wes, just positioned them so Travis was in a corner, out of the way for them to give Wes a quick once-over.

"Stop being so pleased with yourself," Wes suddenly said, his back to Travis. Travis sighed dramatically and sat back (but not too back– Wes's arm was already twisted behind him to retain his contact with Travis).

"How could you tell?" he drawled, not even bothering to argue his case.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to remove the blanket for a minute," a paramedic said, and Wes obligingly let the atrociously orange cloth pool at his waist, and whoa– that was his spine. Far too defined, even if Wes had been a skinny little thing to begin with, and if Travis squinted past the white fluorescent light in the ambulance, he could see the pale shadows outlining his ribs. And that was just his _back_. All sense of satisfaction abruptly gone, Travis found himself reaching for a hold on his (fading vanishing ceasing stop it stop thinking) partner, his hand covering Wes's just as Wes tightened his grip. Tendons strained against Wes's forearms, knuckles pressed at the inside of Travis's elbow, and Travis was shocked to realize that Wes was _nervous_. Shocked at himself for not seeing this sooner, that Wes had never been much of a tactile guy, and now strangers he couldn't even _see_ were poking and prodding at his bare chest.

"The hospital." Wes's voice was low and scratchy, and Travis forced himself to laugh to ease the tension in Wes's frame, in his own body.

"Don't worry. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

_Again_ , he wanted to say.

#53.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, absolution. More emotional shenanigans after, but in the healing process. It's all a process.


	7. With Direct Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a breather chapter.

"So I'm afraid Detective Mitchell will have to stay the night for further observations."

"That won't be possible," Wes objected, raising a finger in poignant rejection. Travis thought that Wes's indignant face would be so much more effective if he was actually _looking_ at the doctor, not frowning seriously at his reflection in the window by his bed. "There's no bed."

"Wes– Wes, over here." Travis snapped a couple of times, and Wes's whole body jerked, his head turning wildly to find the source of the noise. Travis sighed, and very graciously sat on the bed so that he was right in Wes's line of vision, though it still took a second for Wes to visibly focus. The sight of Travis's face seemed to startle Wes, and he toppled back, falling onto the pillow with a soft _oomph_. There was no holding back the grin after that. "There is a bed. You're lying on it."

"Of course I am." Wes looked decidedly affronted, but suddenly fell to a snorting fit. "You can share with me, then. We can cuddle." A frown. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. Am I– Am I drugged?"

"Yes, Wes, you're drugged," Travis replied dully, the answer familiar on his tongue, because that was the fourth time Wes asked. "The nurse put you on morphine."

"Why?" Now he looked _sad_ , like someone had taken his teddy bear, except in this case, the teddy bear was Wes's conscious mind and– that was a surprisingly apt analogy. "Why would she do that?"

"Because you were bitching about your head and your ankle and how everybody was touching you, so she figured morphine would shut you right up." And then his hands were on Travis's face, pulling him toward Wes's pinched expression. Travis blinked rapidly under the close scrutiny. Wes's breath smelled like the mouthwash he had _demanded_ to have the moment they got to the emergency room. Then Wes murmured a quiet _aha_ , then fell back, letting Travis go.

"That's a lie," he said triumphantly. Travis couldn't help it anymore. He collapsed face-first into the bed, burying his face somewhere by Wes's right knee, and laughed until tears were streaming from his eyes. Dimly, he registered a suffering sigh from where he thought he had left the doctor and the opening and shutting of a door, but by the time Travis realized that he and Wes were alone in the room, it was too late to save any of his dignity.

"This is all your fault," Travis hiccuped into Wes's knee, and there was a light touch on the back of his neck, petting softly. Surprised, Travis worked hard to maneuver his face out of the comforter while maintaining the touch on his nape. When his nose finally popped free from the linen and Travis could see something other than white, his eyes were met by the softest look he's ever seen on Wes, not quite a smile, but far away from the general aura of defensiveness he usually carried. The hand stilled when Wes realized Travis was looking, and for a minute, Travis just stared into the soft, soft gaze.

"Doctor says you should rest." Travis's voice was gravelly, his throat felt unused. Wes gave no indication he heard him, except for the light tapping his fingers have now taken up, blunt tips drumming lightly across Travis's skin. _Piano,_ Travis remembered. _Wes played the piano._

With the constant beat at his neck and Wes's eyes watching, Travis felt more relaxed than he's ever been (there may have been a thought in there somewhere about afterglow, but Travis had enough tact to not try to remember it again). Funny how that it was Wes who was pulling through for Travis, when it should be the other way around. Funny how Travis felt the most put-together with Wes's fingers drumming him apart. Funny how Travis was the one with the edges of his vision blurring, his consciousness drooping as Wes watched with a strangely intense gaze in his soft, soft eyes.


	8. Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams

Wes has woken up alone nearly his entire life. His marriage with Alex an exception (though not as much of an exception as one would think of married couples– they were both lawyers, after all, and knew exactly how busy the other could be), Wes was used to having a cold side of the bed he could sleepily roll to.

Except, this morning (afternoon, actually, if the bright sunlight through the hospital room window was any indication), when Wes attempted to burrow away from the sun, his knee suddenly struck something blunt, and before he could muster up enough consciousness to wonder what it was, a loud yowl of pain woke him right up.

"Tha' was my _nose,_ Wes," Travis was howling as he clutched at his face. For a minute, the detective just hopped in place from foot to foot, as Wes stared in wide-eyed frazzlement. But when his eyes started watering, Travis gave up on bravado with a whimper, and sprinted for the bathroom door on the other side of the room, Wes scrambling to his feet to follow.

"I– It was an accident," Wes stated, a strange distance in his eyes as he watched Travis dab at his bloody nose in the reflection of the mirror. The skin didn't look purple, nor did the alignment of Travis's nose look odd. The tears were only because of the sudden blow, then. A couple of burst blood vessels weren't too bad. But Travis– the wuss– made a growly-keen sound as he pinched his nose tightly shut, which meant he was perfectly fine, nothing so much as bruised except for maybe his ego, and– wha– that was the door, suddenly rushing at Wes's face?

" _Wes!_ "

Wes caught himself before his nose hit the door, but his knees fell at an angle, pain shooting up the fleshy part right beside the left kneecap. Lowering himself with an achy hiss, Wes felt fine tremors run through his muscles. He breathed deeply to stop himself from panicking, suddenly unable to tell whether the white at the corners of his vision was from the meds or vertigo or just because the bathroom floor tiles were white.

Navy socks, to his right. The vertigo, then, because Travis, with a warm hand splayed wide on his back, was helping him sit up, and the edges went fuzzy again. Wes squeezed his eyes shut, leaning heavily on Travis's hands to keep him upright, until the tension at his temples eased. Then he blinked his eyes open, meeting Travis's anxious expression with a meek grimace.

"And I thought the Emperor Cleanse was bad," he mused raspily. Right on cue, his stomach gave a loud gurgle that practically shook Wes's entire body, and Travis stared incredulously at his hand– one still spread on Wes's front, right below the sternum, and the other against the curve of his upper back. "I feel a _really_ powerful hunger."

"Well, c'mon then." Travis scooted until he sat straight back on his haunches, his hands shifting so both braced Wes from underneath, and when Wes realized what was about to happen, he tried to shout:

"Travis, don't–!"

But if it hadn't been too late already it would've been in vain, for when had Travis ever listened to what Wes had to say about something incredibly stupid he was about to do? Travis had already picked Wes up– Wes being far more limb-y and bony than your average bride– and was staring at Wes with an expression that was a mixture of disbelief, pain, and maybe even a little bit of guilt (but just a little bit– Travis didn't do guilt well, and to be frank, Wes didn't like guilt on him– clashed with the assurance-blue of his eyes).

"I told you don't," was all Wes could say, croak, as he clutched onto Travis's biceps.

"I– I can probably throw you across the room like this, man!" Despite the joking words, all Travis sounded was anguished. Anguished over the evidently depleted state his parter was in, anguish over having not prevented it. But Travis was not a man to dwell on the past– Wes had never been more appreciative of this fact– and with a renewed decisiveness visibly setting over his face, he carried Wes back to the bed like their interlude had never happened, like this was just one of Travis's many (many _many_ ) romantic weekends, and Wes a pliant lady friend at his hands.

(And wasn't that hitting uncomfortably close to the mark, what with Wes's body temperature dropping down to something like freezing and Travis radiating heat like the epitome of sunny he was. Wes felt like Play-doh, with Travis's hands expertly arranging him onto the bed, warm spreads across Wes's skin that cooled awfully fast when Travis moved away. There was a moment where Wes's body just instinctively followed Travis's hands up, before dropping back into the bed in a numb fatigue. Wes wasn't even bothering to wonder _why_ right now, when there was the more pressing question of _where_ , as in _where_ is Travis I feel cold.)

"The doctor said you can only eat mush." Travis sounded way too cheerful announcing that piece of information, as he traipsed over to the mini-fridge he must have gotten into the room at some point, because Wes didn't remember it being next to his bed when he fell asleep (then again, he didn't remember much of anything, what with being doped up on morphine and all). "Lucky for you, I'm fantastic at making mush. Just throw stuff into a blender and let it work its magic. I don't even know why you bother with a pan and spatula."

"I am never cooking for you again," Wes vowed.

"I lied," Travis immediately said, holding up a plastic cup of apple sauce. "Generic hospital food. I never touched it."

"I never thought I'd say this, but–" Wes grimaced as Travis stirred the apple sauce, brown globs dripping over each other into a formless sludge. "–I might actually prefer your blender food to this."

"Eat up, baby," Travis said cheerfully. "There are children in Africa–"

"Alright, alright," Wes snapped, glaring as he snatched the plastic cup from Travis's hands. "I can feed myself."

"Ooh, and can you maybe also _cook_ for yourself, too?" Travis asked eagerly. "Maybe chicken parm? 'Cause I know how much you _love_ that stuff."

"If I was able to cook chicken parm, I'd only cook for one anyways," Wes muttered, because he enjoyed being a vengeful bitch on occasion. Travis made a point to look wounded, before turning his head away with a priggish sniff.

"I'm not the one who can only eat _mush_."

"God this stuff is heinous," Wes choked around a swallow, but was nonetheless scraping the last of the apple sauce from the cup. It may taste and feel like sludge going down, but at least it was _something_ going down, and despite the uncomfortably tight feeling in his stomach just from eating the tiny cup of applesauce alone, Wes was instantly craving for another one, wanting to swallow something substantial.

Before Wes could demand another, though, there was a brisk knock on the door, not one to seek permission to enter, but a perfunctory act intended to let the occupant know that they were entering. Wes might have recognized the doctor from yesterday, but truth to be told, he didn't care much to remember. That seemed far too tedious in the warm morning light of the hospital room– especially since that had been all Wes could do for a week. He's never particularly liked his mind in the first place– only when it's useful, only when it counts– and the week's dwelling on nothing but his increasingly horrifying thoughts felt more than enough for a lifetime.

"Ah," the doctor said dryly as she picked up the clipboard from the end of the bed. "I see you're already taking your prescribed foods."

"Don't worry Doc." There was a twinkle in Travis's eyes that Wes had always associated with talking to pretty women, but oddly enough, today, the teasing gaze seemed to linger on _him_ instead of the pretty doctor. "I'm taking good care of him."

Wes could only stare bleakly at the mini-fridge, which did not seem so mini upon the realization that it was probably filled with more atrociously butchered foods.

"Mr. Mitchell, we're looking at an extended stay of about a week and a half to monitor your condition and to make sure you're recovering properly," the doctor informed. "In that period of time your diet will be observed by a specialist, and after your check-up today, we'll see about getting you a physical therapist, if that will be necessary."

"Oh, that reminds me," Travis interrupted, squinting hard at the air above Wes's head to recall a memory. Wes rolled his eyes and snorted at his pained expression. "Sutton wanted me to tell you that you need to clear a psych eval before you get your gun and badge back. Don't worry, 'cause he pulled a couple of strings and got you Dr. Ryan."

"Why does everyone keep trying to give me therapy?" Wes mumbled with something that was absolutely _not_ a pout. "I don't need therapy."

"Yeah you do," Travis replied flippantly. "You're just a man that needs a lot of fixing."

Before Wes could frown, say something scathing back, and derail the entire afternoon to argue, the doctor hastily cleared her throat.

"Mr. Mitchell, I will come back at around four thirty to give you a check up. Before then, try to rest as much as possible–" here she looked pointedly at Travis "–and don't overexert yourself. If you can, eat as much as you can. I know your partner had it stocked to the brim for you while you were sleeping."

Wes accidentally caught a glimpse of Travis's reaction, and almost wilted in dread, for Travis looked like a kindergartner who had just been given free reign to fingerpaint his room however he liked. Like a shark to blood, Travis's attention snapped right back to Wes, his grin far too toothy for Wes's liking.

"Feeding time, Wes," he cackled gleefully. "Now which mush did you want: brown, gray, or barf-colored?"


	9. Voices Are In The Wind’s Singing

The first day at the hospital passed quickly, with Wes doing check ups, blood tests, and starting on a very light round of physical therapy. Travis accompanied him everywhere, and as a result got to point and snigger every time Wes blanked out on a doctor or therapist's instructions, along with watching Wes undress far more times than necessary, exposing his defined ribcage and the sharp angles of his pelvic bone. It wasn't the proof of Travis's inadequacy as a detective that bothered him (much), however, but the uncomfortable and scarily vulnerable expression Wes sported every time a doctor wanted to look him over, and the way Wes practically glued himself to Travis's side when he was allowed to put his shirt back on. In therapy, Wes was at best evasive with questions about his current physical capabilities, but due to his sense of impractical stubbornness, never outright admitted to any inabilities, instead opting to force a task until the therapist or Travis told him to stop. By the end of the day, there were fine tremors running through Wes's muscles every time Travis looked (he looked often) and instead of a healthy flush that accompanied exercise, Wes's skin tone was just a shade darker than the bedsheets he was swathed in.

"You need to stop pushing yourself," Travis said crossly as he shoved a mango slice at Wes's stubbornly closed mouth. "It's stupid."

"Stupid?" Wes's indignant squawk, along with the mango, reminded Travis of Polly the Parrot, and heaved a tortured sigh as Wes proved to be far more uncooperative than the bird from the movie. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean that almost passing out in the middle of what's supposed to be a lightly-paced jog isn't _conducive_ to you getting back in the field, like I know you're just dying to do," Travis snapped, irritably biting down on the mango piece himself. If Wes was going to be like that, _fine_. Travis didn't have to deal with it.

"That's my mango." And he sounded _upset_ , good god.

"You didn't want it."

"I wanted the _pudding_ ," Wes shot back with an accusing stare. "You ate it anyways. Your _argument_ isn't conducive to anything. Asshole," he added as an afterthought.

"Will you please just eat the goddamn fruit already?" Travis groaned, shoving the plate of mango at Wes, who immediately wolfed down the entire plate, all the while glowering at Travis over the top of the plate. Travis blinked a couple of times, trying to understand. When that didn't work, he could only sigh, "What is wrong with you?"

Wes pointedly chewed his mango, setting the now-empty plate down on his bedside table with a clang.

"Well, you guys are getting along."

"Randi! Hey!" Travis greeted, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic as he launched out of his seat to hug the fellow cop. Randi laughed and patted him on the back before making her way to Wes's bedside, where she was met with a welcoming smile. Travis scowled at Wes over Randi's shoulder, because clearly, he was playing favorites, and that was just uncalled for.

"How are you feeling, champ?" Randi asked, picking Wes's arm up by the wrist and letting it drop back limply onto the sheets. "Not so good?"

"Well, it's only been a day–"

"Wes won't stop pushing himself," Travis tattled, sitting down at the foot of the bed. He made sure to press down on Wes's legs so Wes doesn't kick him again. "Randi, tell him to stop."

"Uh-huh, because you boys listen to anyone but each other," she replied, rolling her eyes. Before Travis could think too much about what she meant, she laughed, "I'm surprised Wes hasn't kicked you out yet."

Both Travis and Wes blinked at her in genuine shock.

"I wouldn't do that," Wes protested quietly, frowning down at his fingers, curled loosely around his palm. Travis patted his partner's knee in support, because Randi's accusation ran both ways. While Travis could think up various instances where he wanted nothing more than to get away from Wes, ever since he got Wes back, the thought's never passed through his head. Randi's smirk faded a little as she took in the sudden solemnity.

"Hey, I'm just kidding around," she said. "Don't want to be hitting any sore spots."

"It's not that, it's just–" Wes broke off with a frustrated sigh, briefly meeting Travis's gaze in a momentary plea for help. Travis took a moment to gather his thoughts, tapping his foot in contemplating.

"Just got him back, y'know," he finally said in a gruff voice, with a far more feeling tone than he had wanted. But it was too late to take it back now, and Travis wasn't the slightest bit surprised to find himself meaning it. "We're not eager to leave each other's sights."

Randi's expression looked threateningly saccharine, so Travis quickly added, "And Wes is too proud to ask for help from other people, right? So I have to suffer instead."

"Trav– _Travis_." Travis glanced up at Wes's nauseous expression, instantly worried, but he only said, "Can you stop moving? You're giving me motion sickness."

With one last vindictive, full body-bounce onto the bed (Wes's face grew more pinched as he clutched tighter at the sheets), Travis got to his feet.

"Water?" he asked innocently. Randi laughed openly at the boys' antics before standing up herself.

"I'm glad you're back with us, Wes," she said warmly, cupping her hand against the back of Wes's neck in goodbye. As she made her way to the door, she smacked Travis on the back. "Don't be mean, yeah? You're doing so well."

"Yes, mom," Travis replied sweetly, waving her out the door. "Say hi to Hudson for me!"

"She is definitely one of my favorites," Wes commented idly as he fixed up the wrinkled sheets around him. Travis hummed in agreement as he set the paper cup by Wes's side.

"Hear that, Wes?" he said jovially, undeterred by Wes's skeptical glance at the water. "She thinks we're doing well. We're making progress, man. One day, we might actually be friends."

Travis should've known better than to jinx it.


	10. Let Me Be No Nearer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for flashback, trauma, panic attack.

The floor was cold and hard beneath Wes's knees, and the bile spilled out of him like oil set aflame, burning though his throat and stomach. He didn't dare move his right leg, because he was tired of the bite in his skin, the cuff ripping apart old wounds with vengeance. But he had to move. Wes was in open air, the room completely dark– who knew where the next blow would come from? Paranoia surged through his blood with adrenaline, as Wes's entire body tensed to fight off invisible enemies. Safe ground. Get to safe ground. His back was wide open, there was no one there to watch his back, Wes was alone, Wes was _alone_.

He painstakingly lifted his body above his right foot, planted firm and prone on the floor, and sat back, all the breath rushing out of him as his back hit wall. Breathe, breathe, one lapse in concentration, nothing more. Wes swallowed desperately, willing his lungs to expand, to ease the increasing rush in his head– but what was he doing? Exhale, he should exhale. Too much oxygen, had he been able to see, Wes's vision would've been spotty. Exhale, pour the breath out of his body like food and bile, just one more sustenance Wes could do without. Exhale, oxygen be gone, Wes didn't need it, he didn't.

"Wes…?"

Travis? There was no mistaking that voice. Travis was here, Travis was in the dark, open to attack because Wes wasn't there to watch his back and Wes was panicking. Travis couldn't be here. Travis couldn't be in this stinking hellhole of a place, couldn't be in this dungeon because Travis was never tied down. Not by cuffs, not by ropes, not by responsibilities. Travis was free like Wes never would be, and fuck if Wes was going to let anybody chain him down.

"Travis, get out." His voice was still steady, authoritative. Good. Travis was a man of masks; Wes could do a mask. "You can't be here, Travis. Leave."

"I heard you throwing up and– Wes, are you on the floor? What are you–"

"Get _out_ , Travis!" Wes's leg jerked, and there were no clinking chains, but his breath still stuttered anyways. His hands clutched at his ankle, veins bulging, knuckles protruding as he clawed at his shackle. He had to get free, Wes had to get free in order to get Travis free. Travis was– Travis was tied down with Wes, their fates intwined like a balloon to a rock, and Wes wanted Travis free. " _Please_ , just go away!"

"Wes–" There were warm hands on his shoulder, holding him firmly, stilling his hands. "–what's going on? We're in the hospital, Wes. Do you remember?"

Hospital? That was– "Liar," he spat, struggling in Travis's grip. "Don't lie, don't lie to me. You can't be here. Go, Travis. Go away."

"Why can't I be here?" Travis's voice had taken on a monotone, one that preluded anger, resentment, and this was why Wes needed Travis to go away. Wes was a dark thing, all dirt and shadows, and Travis should never be associated with something like that, something like him. Far from perfect, yes, but Travis was still– happy, at least. Wes never wanted to take that from him, but all Wes seemed to be able to do was make Travis mad. "Wes, answer me. Where are we, and why can't I be here?"

"Travis you have to _listen_ to me–"

"Wes listen to _me_." Travis sounded really angry now. Wes didn't want this. He wanted anything but this. "You always do this, man. You always think you don't need help. You always push me away when you– when you _need_ me."

"I don't need you," Wes lied. "I don't need you Travis, go away–"

"You need me like I need you, okay? Wes, I _need_ –" Travis's voice broke on the last word, his fingers tightening their hold on Wes. He took a deep, shuddering breath that even Wes could feel, an outside sensation that grounded his numb body, snared and imprisoned him like no handcuff ever could. "I need you to come back to me, Wes. Can you do that for me? _Come back_."

And Wes was calming down, the heat from Travis's body offsetting the cold, his fingers pressed against the bathroom floor tiles at his feet.

" _Please._ "

Wes's head fell forward, thumping against Travis's forearm as he… paused. Paused and cleared his head of thoughts, eased his body from tension, forgot– for a moment– things like guilt and shame and anger.

"I… I'm back," he muttered, feeling Travis collapse against him, elbow folding beneath Wes's forehead and trapping Wes against Travis's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't want you to leave, Travis stay with me…"

Murmurs fell from Wes's lips in a litany, sorrow in every word, regret in every apology, all hidden behind a show of a steady cadence and tonelessness. He was sorry, he was sorry, he was so sorry. Never once did Travis try to shush him, just held on tight, soaking in the words because he was hurt, too. There Wes went again, cutting Travis something deep with his misery. There Wes went again, dragging Travis where he should never be.

"Travis, Travis I," Wes breathed, no longer sure if Travis was listening. But he had to say it, he had to get it out. "I need help. Travis, I need your help."

"I'm here for you," Travis answered without hesitation. "Always."


End file.
